Author
Topic: The Black Dragon [W.I.P] (Read 264 times)

♛ Name:Stellan Tully♛ Date of birth:30th June 1973♛ Place of birth:A swamp is Louisiana

♛ Tribe:Mokolé-mbembe

The Mokolé-mbembe, the Stream of the Fighters, traditionally have stalked the swamps and waterways of Africa and the Americas. They are by far the largest of the four streams, and as the current End Times approach, their numbers are steadily growing. Decades ago, the Mokolé-mbembe were rarely sighted outside the depths of the Amazon Rainforest. Now, a more diverse variety of humans have awakened to the Dragon’s Dream, and their human and reptilian Kin are growing ever more diverse. The stream’s most common varna are alligators and crocodilians (including the American crocodile and Nile crocodile), but a few take the shapes of caimans or Gila monsters.

♛ Auspice:The Crowning (The Solar Eclipse)

In moments of astronomical wonder, fantastic events can occur. The rarest of all Mokolé are born during a solar eclipse. They are the ruler-priests of Mokolé society; all weresaurians defer to a Crowning Mokolé. This respect is not without a cost, however. Crowning Mokole are expected to aid those in need, and to put the greater good of their Breed, stream, and clutch before their own personal desires. Those who do not quickly lose the respect normally afforded to their auspice. The Crowning solicit advice from the Concealing, while depending on the Gathering for their practical knowledge.

♛ Breed:Suchid

A suchid Mokolé is hatched from a reptile egg. Civilized homids often consider the suchids’ views on the world to be blatant, brutal, and crudely laced with self-interest. In actuality, suchid are capable of subtler thoughts than “slaying and breeding” (or “fighting and fucking”). When in throes of reptilian Frenzy, however, immediate gratification of the id and ego are a suchid’s primary concerns, confirming the breed’s base reputation.

To see the face of immortality, you must leave the human worldbehind.This fire, these woods, the wind in the branches overhead,This is the true world, the Mother’s realm,The seat of the immortal, the heart of our world.The Weaver spins a gilded web, and strong, but it is false,Ephemeral, when placed against the branches or the flames.Steel and glass give brave assurances, but only viewed against ourfragile flesh.Inside that flesh, inside ourselves, is immortality.